Chapter 2: The Tacky Film Crew and the Sharp-Tongued Genius
2435words
"What do you know!" Hibiki shot back, voice quivering. "Do you have any clue how badly I need this job? You think I want to use trash cans as props? I'm making miracles with nothing! Some privileged jerk who just runs his mouth has zero right to judge me!"
Her words machine-gunned out, but the man simply folded his arms and watched with the detached amusement of someone observing a street performer, his eyes saying: Please continue, your desperation amuses me.
"Comfort and luxury?" The man finally spoke, mockery lacing his words as he unhurriedly retrieved his storyboard, fastidiously dusting off imaginary dirt. "So in your world, insisting on proper cinematic language and showing basic respect for light and shadow equals privilege? Then what do you call cobbling together visual garbage just to survive? Practicality? Or delusion?"
Each word cut like a scalpel through Hibiki's armor of optimism and resignation, piercing straight to her core—to that buried artistic integrity. Was the filmmaker who created that poetic black and white masterpiece really the same person now planning to use a garbage can as a helmet?
Hibiki stood speechless, cheeks burning. She wanted to argue but couldn't—because damn it, he was right.
Seeing her deflate, the man lost interest in further verbal assault. He yawned, flopping back onto the broken sofa and pulling canvas over himself, grumbling: "Enough noise pollution. I need sleep. Take your dumpster diving elsewhere."
His dismissiveness ignited both Hibiki's survival instinct and her networking skills. Despite his lethal tongue, those meticulously crafted storyboards proved his talent. In this derelict warehouse, this man was the most valuable resource she could see!
"Wait!" Hibiki executed a complete 180. She bounded to the sofa, face transformed by a smile that could melt glaciers, voice honeyed to sickening sweetness. "Oh great... master! My sincerest apologies for disturbing your solitude with my ignorance!"
The canvas shifted slightly, clearly suspicious of her abrupt transformation.
"I'm Hibiki Natsume, the new tenant!" Hibiki plowed through his coldness with relentless cheer. "I'm launching a revolutionary video project that'll transform the entire short-form content landscape! But startups are tough. Our production team is building from nothing, and we desperately need someone with your hidden talents and extraordinary vision..." She faltered briefly, unsure what title to bestow upon him.
The man poked half his head out, eyeing her like she'd escaped a psychiatric ward: "What do you want?"
"I want to hire you!" Hibiki declared boldly. "As our production team's... warehouse manager!"
Even as the words left her mouth, Hibiki recognized their absurdity. But she pressed on: "Look, you already live here, right? Now that I've rented the place, you can stay and help manage things. Perfectly reasonable! As payment, I'll provide food and lodging!"
The man gave a cold laugh: "Food and lodging? In this dump? And with your..." he glanced at Hibiki's backpack, where half a package of instant noodles peeked out, "...gourmet cuisine?"
"Exactly!" Hibiki didn't miss a beat, whipping out the noodle package and slapping it with a crisp sound. "Tonkotsu ramen! Deluxe limited edition! All you can eat! Plus, you need a legitimate reason to be here, right? 'Warehouse Manager'—doesn't that sound professional? If anyone asks, you're our core logistics coordinator!"
The man stared at Hibiki with an expression mixing bewilderment and disbelief for a solid minute. He seemed to be calculating whether she was genuinely unhinged or just possessed skin thick as armor. Finally, perhaps swayed by basic survival needs, or simply too exhausted to continue arguing, he retreated under the canvas with a muffled response.
"...Ren Kurosawa."
"What?" Hibiki hadn't caught it.
"My name," the voice dripped impatience. "And I'm not your manager, just a tenant. Leave me alone."
"Yes, yes! Manager Ren!" Hibiki pounced on the opening, deliberately ignoring his refusal. "Thrilled to work together! I'll prepare your first executive lunch immediately!"
She hummed cheerfully as she skipped to a corner to boil water on a portable stove for instant noodles. Behind her, Ren Kurosawa sat motionless, apparently asleep, but his lips twitched beneath the canvas. He had a sinking feeling he'd made a terrible mistake.
With the "pleasant surprise" of Ren Kurosawa secured, Hibiki moved to recruit additional help. She knew that she and the sharp-tongued "manager" weren't enough. She targeted her most promising resource—fellow Tokyo Arts University Drama Club members who, like her, were broke but talented.
She fired off a passionate message to the Drama Club chat: "[EPIC PROJECT LAUNCH! SEEKING DRAGON-SLAYERS!] Friends! Still scraping for art supplies? Desperate for a showcase? Join 'Hibiki Chime Studio'! We're creating killer content and making bank! Meals included (fast food), housing available! DM for details—limited spots, first come first served!"
After sending the message, responses were sparse. Most assumed it was just Hibiki being Hibiki. But soon, two avatars lit up with incoming messages.
First to respond was a special effects makeup wizard nicknamed "Decay-chan"—Ai Sato. She specialized in bloody, horrifying, and bizarre makeup, capable of creating Hollywood-quality zombie decomposition using dollar store supplies. Her ultra-niche style meant work only during Halloween season, leaving her perpetually broke.
The second was a prop-making genius dubbed "Junk King"—Kenta Suzuki. A passionate modder who transformed discarded appliances, plastic bottles and cardboard into steampunk mechanical arms or Cybertron energy weapons. His heroes were post-apocalyptic scavengers, and he lived by the motto: "There's no such thing as trash, only misplaced resources."
Hibiki "interviewed" them at the warehouse. Ai Sato used ketchup and flour to create a disturbingly realistic knife wound on her arm, leaving Hibiki slack-jawed. Kenta Suzuki demonstrated his "laser pistol" cobbled together from two soda bottles and an old pipe, complete with a red flashlight beam when triggered.
"You're both hired!" Hibiki announced excitedly. "As of today, you're co-founders of 'Hibiki Chime Studio'!"
She painted their future with wild enthusiasm, promising viral sensations, endorsement deals flooding in, and eventually their own studio where material shortages would be a distant memory.
Ai Sato and Kenta Suzuki stood dazed by this grand vision, already seeing fame and fortune on the horizon. The three clicked instantly, and "Hibiki Chime Studio" was officially established in the abandoned warehouse—informal but brimming with passion.
With the team assembled, they needed a script. Before Hibiki could start brainstorming, her phone rang—Akira Saionji.
"Director Natsume," Saionji's voice oozed casual authority, "I have my first request. Simple: make it fast-paced, instantly gripping, and get those bored housewives and schoolgirls screaming with excitement, unable to stop watching."
"What exactly are you suggesting...?" Hibiki asked cautiously.
"CEO falls in love with me." Saionji enunciated each word distinctly. "That's the theme. Male lead: handsome, filthy rich, domineering—constantly pinning the female lead against walls, forcing kisses, throwing checks at her! Female lead: ordinary, stubborn, resilient as a cockroach! Make it as clichéd as possible, as addictive as possible! Got it?"
After hanging up, Hibiki sank into thought. Domineering CEO romance? Wasn't that trope dead years ago? Her artistic integrity screamed in protest, but another voice reminded her: with fifty million yen of debt, beggars can't be choosers.
So, embracing "the customer is always right" and "survival trumps art," Hibiki pulled an all-nighter and cranked out a five-episode script titled "Love Prisoner's Little Runaway Wife." The plot crammed in every cliché imaginable: car crashes, amnesia, doppelgängers, pregnancy escapes, and dialogue so corny it could feed a stable.
When she distributed the script to her "founding team," Ai Sato and Kenta Suzuki devoured it enthusiastically, repeatedly gushing, "Hibiki, you're a genius! This will absolutely blow up!"
Meanwhile, Ren Kurosawa in the corner merely glanced at the script cover and let out a laugh cold enough to freeze hell.
"...Garbage."
Shooting began. They sectioned the warehouse into crude sets: "CEO's office," "female lead's apartment," and so on. The actors were drama club juniors Hibiki recruited, payment being two premium bento boxes daily.
The first scene: domineering CEO corners innocent female lead against the wall—the classic kabedon move.
"Woman, you have successfully captured my attention." The male actor delivered this cringe-worthy line while attempting a devilish smirk.
Hibiki watched through a second-hand monitor, sensing something off. The lighting was flat, completely missing the intimidating aura a domineering CEO should project.
"The lighting's all wrong!" Hibiki shouted. "Kenta, move your flashlight left! Yes, higher!"
Kenta Suzuki waved his pole-mounted flashlight around, creating a chaotic mess of light and shadow that made the scene even more unwatchable.
"Morons! That's not how lighting works!" The previously silent Ren Kurosawa finally erupted. He jumped up, face contorted with frustration. "To create oppression, you need side backlighting for silhouette definition, with hard frontal light for dramatic shadows! What's that flashlight? The beam's scattered like drunk fireflies!"
While berating them, he stormed over and rummaged through Kenta's "junk mountain," extracting aluminum foil and black cloth. In seconds, he fashioned a crude snoot around the flashlight, transforming the scattered light into a focused beam. He directed Kenta to adjust the angle, and the mundane scene instantly gained dramatic depth. Half the male lead's face vanished into shadow, his gaze suddenly menacing and dangerous.
"Whoa!" Hibiki and the actors gasped in unison.
Ren Kurosawa continued his rant, jabbing at Hibiki's monitor: "And you! What's with this composition? Center framing? Are we shooting a funeral portrait? Lower the camera! Use a low angle! Emphasize his height and her vulnerability! How did you graduate without knowing basic camera language?"
Hibiki absorbed the verbal lashing without resentment. She adjusted the camera exactly as instructed. Immediately, the shot transformed into something visually striking, exuding that delicious melodrama unique to soap operas.
"What... what is this garbage..." Ren Kurosawa stared at the monitor displaying an image both tacky and technically flawless, falling into existential crisis as he muttered his catchphrase.
But he couldn't stop himself. Throughout filming, he became a walking master class in brutal criticism.
"What kind of makeup is this? That blood looks like cherry syrup! Ai, mix tomato sauce and chocolate sauce three-to-one—that's real coagulated blood!"
"Props! Kenta! Plastic flowers in a CEO's office? Go outside and pick some damn weeds for the vase—even that's better than this plastic crap!"
"Cut! Those tears! They're like glass marbles! Emotion builds gradually—first the reddening eyes, then the glistening, finally one perfect tear rolling down! Again!"
The crew completed shooting with bizarre efficiency under Ren's relentless psychological warfare of "this is garbage," "absolute disaster," and "my eyes are bleeding." Hibiki felt she'd been force-fed a master director's course worth millions—hellish, but undeniably effective.
The drama wrapped and entered the crucial editing phase. Hibiki remained alone in the warehouse, surrounded by countless footage clips on her screen. The air reeked of instant noodles and energy drinks—the perfume of desperate creativity.
As night deepened and Hibiki's eyes began to glue themselves to the screen, the warehouse door creaked open.
A warm aroma of food wafted in, cutting through her exhaustion. Hibiki raised her bloodshot eyes to see a familiar figure.
Yusuke Tachibana stood there holding an insulated lunch box and a thermos of steaming coffee, smiling softly. In his simple white sweater, his presence was gentle as moonlight.
"I knew you'd be working yourself to death again," Yusuke's voice was tender enough to melt butter. "How can you keep going without food?"
Without fuss, he set down homemade, steaming tamagoyaki and fresh vegetable salad on her desk, then poured a cup of aromatic coffee.
"Yusuke!" At his sight, Hibiki instantly relaxed—a storm-tossed vessel finding safe harbor. "What brings you here?"
"Just passing by and thought I'd check on you," Yusuke said, retrieving a discarded blanket and draping it gently over her shoulders. "It's getting chilly. Don't catch cold."
While devouring her midnight meal, Hibiki rambled about the shoot's challenges and Ren's razor tongue. Yusuke listened quietly, occasionally nodding, his eyes warm with affection and concern.
After she finished eating, he silently cleared away the trash, organized scattered props, and restored order to chaos—just as he'd done countless times before. He rarely spoke much, yet always materialized when she needed him most, supporting her through actions rather than words.
"Yusuke," Hibiki watched his silhouette as he worked and said softly, "thank you."
Yusuke turned with a gentle smile. "Between us, are thanks necessary? Let's wrap this up so you can rest."
With him nearby, all her jagged anxieties seemed to soften. Yusuke was the stabilizing force in her chaotic life—the safe harbor where she could always recharge.
With editing complete, Hibiki adopted a "nothing to lose" mentality and uploaded all five episodes to the hottest short-video platform.
The results shattered all expectations.
Within twenty-four hours, "Love Prisoner's Little Runaway Wife" went viral across social media. The comments section erupted:
"OMG! This plot is prehistoric cheese! Why can't I stop watching?!" "That wall-slam scene—the lighting, the framing—absolutely killer! Like a freaking noir film!" "Dialog makes me cringe so hard I'm inside out, but with eight plot twists per minute, I'm HOOKED!" "So bad it's good! This team is dangerous! Official 'Digital Crack' of 2023!"
The series exploded. Fan videos and parodies multiplied like rabbits, while donations poured in at breakneck speed. A week later, checking the earnings dashboard, Hibiki nearly burst into tears. After platform fees, she'd earned exactly five hundred thousand yen!
This was the first "fortune" she'd ever earned through her own talent.
She immediately withdrew the cash, stuffed it in an envelope, and marched straight to Saionji Group headquarters.
Standing beneath the towering skyscraper, Hibiki felt microscopic. But she clutched the envelope tightly and summoned the courage to walk in.
In the CEO's office, Hibiki found Akira Saionji maintaining his elegant, relaxed demeanor while trimming an expensive orchid.
"Mr. Saionji," Hibiki placed the envelope before him, her voice quiet but steel-reinforced, "the first payment."
Akira Saionji set down his golden scissors, eyebrows lifting slightly. He picked up the envelope, extracted the thick wad of bills, weighed it in his hand, and chuckled softly.
"Five hundred thousand? Against fifty million, that barely covers the interest, Director Natsume." Though his words mocked, behind his glasses flashed a barely perceptible glint of surprise and respect.
"This is just the beginning." Hibiki met his gaze directly, her perpetually bloodshot eyes now burning with fierce determination. "The rest will follow—every yen, with interest."
Five hundred thousand was indeed a mere drop against the ocean of fifty million. But for Hibiki, this stack of bills represented the first solid handhold she'd grasped while climbing from the abyss.
For the first time, she could glimpse a distant light of hope.
